


rose between two thorns

by pedrosmustache



Category: Triple Frontier (2019)
Genre: Age Difference, Boss/Employee Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:40:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29985774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pedrosmustache/pseuds/pedrosmustache
Summary: he’s gone until he’s not. then everything changes.
Relationships: Francisco "Catfish" Morales/Reader, Francisco "Catfish" Morales/You
Comments: 5
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

you should have known going into it that nannying for francisco morales would be unconventional.

to someone of a more observant nature, his advertisement would have been the writing on the wall: plain, stark text on a sheet of printer paper tacked to the listings board in your university’s dining hall; no fancy borders, no attached photographs, no warm, motherly flair. just the commanding call to action— _nanny needed for a three-month-old girl. must be available full time_ —and a number to reach him by.

your first in-person meeting with mr. morales— _frankie_ —didn’t throw you off either, though it probably should have. you’d entered his rancher style home to find a veritable tornado of mismatched laundry in the living room, dirty dishes in the kitchen, plastic bags of pantry items still on the dining table, and children’s toys scattered about the faded carpet.

when he’d asked when you could start, his daughter clinging to his chest, no formal interview or questioning apparently on his to-do list, you’d simply told him you could start then and there. no hesitation, no wondering if he could possibly, potentially turn out to be a homicidal maniac. you’d just seen him, his haggard face, and maria’s gummy smile and known this was the job for you.

three months later, you’re wrapped tight around maria’s pinky finger and just as tightly around her father’s thumb. you might not have a life; you might be more mother to maria than nanny and more crisis coordinator for frankie than employee, but you wouldn’t change it no matter how much your mother complains.

and your mother complains about your job a lot—but maybe she has reason to. you’d started working for frankie in the fall semester of your final year at university. upon realizing the extreme weight of your job responsibilities, you’d transferred to the online campus, and now you complete your coursework as best you can between feedings and laundry and running errands.

your mother hates it. she thinks it’s a waste of money and a waste of your time to be schlepping back and forth between your apartment and frankie’s place while trying to maintain some semblance of passing grades. she thinks you would be better off tossing espresso in an overpriced coffee shop or answering phone calls for a stuffy businessperson.

honestly, she’s probably right, loathe as you are to admit it. your sleep schedule is fucked; your social schedule is nigh on nonexistent. your grades are fine, but just that—fine. you’ll graduate with your degree in advertising, but only just.

still, you’re happy. maria is an easy baby, and it never fails to warm your heart when you walk through the door each morning and her chubby cheeks pinch with a joyful smile at seeing you. frankie is a good boss, too. he pays well (probably not enough considering how much you actually run his house for him while he works, but you never mention the discrepancy); he treats you well; and he’s damn easy to look at after a long day of nothing but baby spit up and kid’s cartoons.

all in all, even if this isn’t what you thought your life would look like at twenty-five, you’re making it work.

you slip into frankie’s house early one monday morning, keys and phone in one hand, overpriced coffee in the other, a heavy satchel slung over your shoulder. you shut the door with a quick bump of your hip, blocking out the winter chill as fast as you can. texas winters aren’t unbearable by any stretch of the imagination, but when nine months out of the year hover around sixty-five degrees or higher, the three months of fifty degrees and below is dreadful. as it is, you forgot your jacket in the basement friday afternoon and going without it the whole weekend has made you that much more susceptible to the cold.

frankie turns around from the kitchen sink when you enter. mouth full of store-bought coffeecake, he mumbles a greeting, flecks of sugary crumble falling from behind his lips. he brushes the crumbs off of his tan jacket and shoots you a sideways smirk with a shrug of his shoulders. after downing half a glass of milk, he wipes away the leftover dribbles caught in his patchy beard.

“sorry.” he takes his hat off, runs his hand through his hair, puts his hat back on again. “running late this morning.”

you drop your satchel to the worn kitchen table, and the weight of all your belongings—wallet, laptop, textbooks, toys you forgot to remove—tilts the bag to the side. “did maria keep you up?”

he shakes his head and steps to the fridge. “nah.” the fridge opens on a pop, and a muted yellow light covers his lower half as he reaches inside for his lunch bag. “just… couldn’t sleep.”

you don’t ask him to elaborate, and truthfully, you hope he doesn’t.

you spend the majority of your time in frankie’s house. from monday to friday, six-thirty to five-thirty, you’re his lifeline at home. you hold together what remains of his household after his ex-wife’s sudden departure following maria’s birth, and you do your job well. there’s appointments to schedule (both his and the baby’s), groceries to buy, play-dates to arrange. anything he can’t do from his job at the construction site falls to you. in a way, you’re his nine-to-five wife, a homemaker for a home not your own.

but you aren’t his wife, not really. and as devastatingly handsome as he is, he’s your boss first and foremost. if he’s kept up at night by dreams about his time in the service or worries about his future, you don’t want to hear it. it’s not that you don’t care; you do, probably too much. it’s just that, if he divulges those secrets, you’ll start thinking about wrapping your arms around his solid back, laying your head on his chest, offering a bit of comfort in an otherwise uncomfortable world. you’d rather stick to your job description: care for maria, manage the house. that—that you can do without butterflies in your stomach.

as you pull the laptop out of your bag, frankie grabs his to-go coffee cup and skirts around the table. the air that wafts past you smells like his aftershave: sharp and clean, and when his hand drops to your shoulder, you stand straight, your chest clenching at the feeling of his heavy palm on your body. you turn, and his hand falls.

“i almost forgot,” he says, his eyes squeezed shut as though trying to remember. “can you stay late tonight?” he opens his eyes and tilts his head to the side. “i know it’s probably too late to ask, but i completely forgot about this… thing i’ve got. my buddies from the army—we’re getting together and—”

you cut him off, nodding emphatically to ease the pinch in his brow. “yeah, mr. morales, i can stay. it’s fine.”

“you sure? you don’t have a date or somethin’ to get to?”

you reach for a textbook, the thin cover bent at an awkward angle in your haste to shove it in your bag when you left your apartment. the movement is a calculated one, an attempt to hide your flushed cheeks at the way frankie’s tongue so easily rolls over the word _date._

fuck, you’ve got it bad this morning.

most of the time you can ignore your girlish crush, but some days are harder than others, and frankie’s warm, pleading gaze coupled with the coffeecake crumb stuck to his chin makes you especially weak this morning.

“no date,” you say. “you can stay out as long as you like. you deserve an evening out.”

frankie huffs, amusement mingled with derision. “can’t remember the last time i went out. work’s been a bitch lately.” he looks up from the sickly yellow-and-white checkered tile. “sorry.”

the corner of your mouth tugs on a smile. “’s fine, mr. morales.”

“okay, well, thanks… for being willing.” he takes a few steps back, his footfalls fading when he crosses the line where tile gives way to textured carpet. with the open floor plan of the rancher, you watch as he makes his way to the front door. he twists at the waist when he grabs the doorknob, one long finger on his free hand directed at you. “hey—it’s frankie, not mr. morales. how many times do i gotta tell you that?”

you laugh and wave him off. “at least once more, mr. morales.”

frankie mutters something under his breath, shaking his head, as he opens the door and steps outside. when the door shuts behind him, you release a heavy sigh. your cheeks feel warm, and you suddenly wish you’d ordered your coffee iced instead of hot.

roughly an hour later and right on time, the baby monitor on the counter crackles to life when maria wakes. you hear her yawn and gurgle to herself through the fuzzy audio, and you shut your laptop, setting it aside.

time for more meaningful work.

popping open the fridge, you pull out a pre-filled bottle of formula and set it to warm in the bottle warmer. then you head down the hall and slip inside maria’s nursery, turning on the small lamp on the dresser in the corner. a yellow-orange glow bathes the room before you twist open the blinds and allow more natural light to push away the dark.

there isn’t much to see in the nursery. like frankie’s original advertisement for the nanny position, maria’s bedroom is devoid of most decorative flair. the white furniture is clean and crisp, but the room feels too sterile and utilitarian for a baby’s bedroom. it’s not frankie’s fault he doesn’t have an eye for interior design; not really, anyway. as he tells it, though in the vaguest of terms, the shock of his wife leaving and surrendering parental rights all in the course of a weekend took precedence over making his baby girl’s nursery cozy. why he and his ex-wife didn’t decorate before maria was born you’ve never had the cojones to ask, and you suppose at the end of the day it doesn’t matter. what matters is that frankie loves his daughter, whole-heartedly, painted walls and framed photos or not.

maria’s face splits in a wide smile when you bend over her crib. she flaps her chubby arms and legs, cooing as you reach in and lift her from the mattress. her joy at seeing you each morning never fails to warm your chest, and when she burrows her head in your neck as she rubs her sleepy eyes, you feel like you might fall over and die of delight. she’s your baby, your pal, though she doesn’t yet know how to talk or walk. your mother thinks it’s dangerous, the way you’ve grown so attached to maria, but how could you not when maria has grown so attached to you?

you spend most of the morning preparing for your grocery trip and most of your afternoon buying food and house items for the next week. while at the store, maria laughs and reaches for the people crowding the store aisles from her seat in the shopping cart. she manages to knock a box of mac-and-cheese from a shelf into the cart, and you leave it in the pile. she’s a girl after your own heart it seems.

by the time you make it home and unpack the plastic bags from your trunk, it’s time for maria’s nap. you settle her down in her crib, twist the blinds closed, then return to the kitchen to put everything you bought at the store away. then you set about prepping dinner so frankie can pop it in the oven when he gets home, but all too late you remember he likely won’t be home to eat tonight. what you made will keep for dinner on tuesday, and you’ll settle for a simple pb&j when it comes time for your own supper.

the rest of the day passes in a flurry of playing with maria on the living room carpet, light cleaning (maria gets a kick out of rooting through the drawers she can reach and tossing whatever contents she finds to the floor), and your nighttime ritual of a bubble-bath and bed-time story. you cradle the baby in your lap while you read, sat in the ancient rocking chair beside the window. rocking gently back and forth, you recount the story of the very hungry caterpillar for the umpteenth time, all the while drinking in the smell of her downy soft hair and freshly-lotioned skin. she’s a little warming lump dressed in her footie pajamas, and you think you could get used to this: you and her and frankie and—

you shove the thought aside. you’ll stay with frankie for the foreseeable future, but at some point, you’ll have to move on, put your major to good use. it’s not your destiny to nanny maria forever, and you really don’t think you want to, much as you love her.

after laying maria in the crib and switching on the white-noise machine beside the lamp, you tip-toe out of her room, headed straight for the living room couch where you intend to collapse and turn your brain _off._ it’s not hard to zone out, especially with some mind-numbing reality tv program filling the empty spaces of the house. you barely register the sound of the front door unlocking and frankie’s footsteps in the entryway. it’s only when he flips on the living room light that you sit up from your place burrowed beneath a scratchy afghan and rub your eyes.

“oh, hey,” you say, your voice laced with fatigue. “you’re home.”

“hey.” frankie drops to his armchair—an overstuffed leather lazy-boy—and watches a dramatic screaming match between a mother and daughter unfold on the tv. “have a good day?”

you set the afghan aside and nod. “yeah, no problems. we went to the grocery store. there’s a pot pie for tomorrow already in the fridge.”

frankie looks away from the tv, his eyebrows lifted in interest. “really? that’s great. thanks.”

“mhmm.” you stretch your arms over your head on a yawn. “did you have a fun time with your friends?”

it takes him a long time to answer, and you watch a series of emotions play over his face like a film strip on a movie reel. when he finally does answer, it’s just a noncommittal grunt and nod, a lift of his one shoulder. you decide not to push him, late as it is, and you slide from the couch.

“i should probably head home.”

“yeah, yeah.” he stands when you do. “don’t let me keep you.”

you gather your packed satchel from beside the couch and sling it over your shoulder. checking for your keys, you secure them in your fist and step toward the front door.

before you can truly leave and call it a day, you snap your fingers as you remember the last of your daily business. “the doctor’s office called, by the way. maria’s got her six-month checkup next week, on friday. i didn’t see anything on the calendar so i went ahead and confirmed it.”

frankie drops his forehead to his palm with a groan. “fuck—that’s what i forgot.” on a sigh, he looks up, his mouth wrenched to the side in a grimace. “do you think you can cancel it tomorrow? something’s come up. actually—well, do you have a minute more?” he motions to the couch, an invitation to sit back down.

your brow furrows, and you’re quick to resume your seat. “is everything okay?”

“yeah, it’s fine.” instead of sitting, frankie leans his ass against the arm of his chair. he crosses his arms over his chest, and the fabric around his biceps tightens. you look away, eyes bouncing to the now-muted tv, before looking back at him, careful to keep your gaze trained solely on his. “one of my army friends sprung a surprise trip on us tonight. just a quick weekend thing, but he wants us all to go down to south america.”

you can’t help the way your jaw goes slack. “south america?”

he nods and makes an exasperated noise like he can’t believe it either. “yeah, some job for the army down there.” he waves his hand in dismissal, rolling his eyes. “the details don’t really matter. what i’m trying to ask is: can you stay overnight with maria? we leave on thursday.”

“thursday?” you mentally run through your personal calendar, but know it’s already full with work and school assignments. the hesitation is more to give off the impression that you have a life outside of your job, which is entirely untrue. “when will you be back?”

“saturday, i think. maybe sunday. the schedule is still being worked out. i’ll pay you extra, obviously.”

you mirror frankie’s earlier noncommittal shrug with one of your own. “i mean, i guess i can. i don’t have anything going on, so it wouldn’t be a big deal.”

“man, i don’t know what i’d do without you.” he pushes off the arm of the chair and reaches out to squeeze your shoulder. with the way you’re sitting and he’s standing, you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. his back obscures the ever-changing light of the tv, and his broad shoulders—broader than you’d realized before—have you swallowing around a lump in your throat. you hold still, uncertain how to move, where to move, if you want to move. frankie’s eyes dart back and forth between yours, and, if it’s possible, you freeze even more under the sudden brush of his thumb against the side of your neck.

“i should probably get going,” you say, your voice a hushed breath in the tense room.

“yeah, okay. we can… work out the details later.” frankie steps back, but his hand slides down your arm rather than simply lifting as he moves out of the way. he rubs the back of his neck and returns the small wave you give him at the door.

“night, mr. morales.”

on a rueful sort of chuckle, he swings his head back and forth. “it’s frankie.”

“i know.”

you exit the rancher, closing the door behind you. when you slide into the front seat of your car, you drop your forehead to the steering wheel, curling your hands around the faux leather.

had you been imagining the way frankie’s eyes flitted to your mouth when you stared up at him with parted lips? had you been imagining that brush of his thumb on your neck?

frankie’s attractive; you’re not blind. but you’re also not dumb. he’s got at least ten years on you age wise, plus an ex-wife and a daughter too. you’re just the nanny, just a student he’s convinced to run his life for him while he struggles to make ends meet at a dead-end construction job. if there’s any tension—sexual, romantic, or otherwise—it’s all on your side.

with a sigh, you turn over the engine of your car and pull out of the driveway.

a long weekend at frankie’s house, just you and the baby and your penchant for dangerous daydreams? damn, are you in for a potentially rough few days…

*******

on wednesday night, frankie texts you to say he’s taken all of thursday off work in order to spend some quality time with maria before his flight to south america leaves in the late afternoon. his text is direct and to the point ( **sleep in tomorrow. we won’t need you until noon.** ), and you decide teaching him the art of a few encouraging emojis is a lost cause. despite the rather clipped tone of the text, you know he means it when he tells you to sleep in. frankie’s considerate like that, always has been.

you roll out of bed late thursday morning. you pack light, hoping frankie will be home by saturday night as he promised; but in the unlikely event something does happen, you live close enough to pop back home should you need more items if his trip is extended. lugging your suitcase from the third floor of your apartment building down to the parking lot, you prattle off instructions to your roommate, anna, about how to best care for your cat, meatball, while you’re away. she promises to keep meatball alive and well, implores you to snoop through frankie’s drawers when you get the chance, and sends you off with a quick kiss to the cheek.

you mutter under your breath about anna being a bad influence as you make your way across the highway and into frankie’s neighborhood. in the past, you’d shown anna a photo or two of frankie, but you stopped giving her so much of a glimpse of your boss through his unsurprisingly sparse and very _dad_ instagram account when she started making suggestive comments about the trim of his waist and cut of his jawline. far be it for you to admit you’re protective of frankie, but you just don’t like the idea of your roommate ogling him. it’s as simple as that.

maria squeals when you finally do enter the rancher, dragging your suitcase behind you. her chunky set of plastic keys clatter together as she flaps her arms in happiness, and she scoots her rump back and forth on the plush blanket laid out on the living room carpet. it’s the happy dance you know well, the one she does every time frankie comes home from work.

“here, let me get that.” frankie is quick to rise from the floor and take the suitcase from your hand. his fingertips brush your wrist, and you pull your hand away quick, averting your eyes though you know the momentary connection was inevitable.

“thanks.” you note the small carry-on bag beside the door. the bag is a muted brown, slouched where there’s empty space within, and you can’t help but chuckle. “you packed light.”

frankie heaves your suitcase to the kitchen where he drops it beside the table. “you didn’t.” he peeks at you from out of the corner of his eye, a slight smile on his mouth.

lifting maria from the carpet, you place her on your hip and join him in the kitchen. “actually, i did. for me anyway.”

“what did you bring? your entire closet and the whole makeup store?”

“of course—plus a whole dsw.” at frankie’s blank look, you arch an eyebrow. “it’s a shoe store.”

frankie’s brow tightens, and a slight blush rises to his cheeks. “sure, i know that.” he looks down, gives the slightest shake of his head, then drops his fingertips to a stapled pile of papers on the table. “i wrote everything out. i know you already know it all, but i haven’t been away from her since she was born, so i wrote it out. everything’s there—my sister’s number too in case you can’t reach me. i don’t know what she could do for you since she’s in florida, but it’s there in case. oh—and the number for the pediatrician, but i guess you know that already too.” he sighs, lifts the hat from his head, ruffles his hair. “sorry, i’m just—”

“it’s okay, mr. morales.” on an impulse, you grab his arm and squeeze lightly. his eyes skewer yours, round and soft with worry. frankie’s a big guy, an ex-special operative for the military, trained to fight and kill, but damn if he hasn’t got some of the most expressive eyes you’ve ever seen. it’s written plain as day on his face: the nerves and fear. “everything will be okay.”

he nods as though he’s trusting you with his entire world and perhaps he is. the weight of his ask and your job isn’t lost on you. he would go to hell and back for his baby, and you’ll do all you can to ease his worry while he’s away.

“right, well—the second bedroom is maria’s, so you’ll have to take my room. is… that okay?”

you ignore the way your chest instantly seizes at the idea of sleeping in your boss’s bed, and you simply nod and say in a rush, “yeah, sure, that’s fine. whatever works.”

“let me show you, then.”

frankie picks up your suitcase and shuffles down the hall to his bedroom. you follow, maria heavy on your side. she jingles the plastic keys still tight in her grasp, and the red key knocks you in the chin. you lower her arm to try and avoid further injury.

after flipping the light on, frankie places your suitcase on the end of his bed. he turns around, scratching his forehead as he glances about the room. “uh—the sheets are new, and there’s towels in the hall for the bathroom. be careful if you plug a hairdryer in the bathroom outlet. sometimes there’s sparks. gotta get that checked one of these days.” he steps around you to the closet door. “did you bring a pillow? there’s extra in here if you need any and—”

“i’ll figure out,” you say, tossing him a reassuring smile. “you won’t be gone too long.”

“yeah. we should be back by sunday.”

he sighs, his gaze turning to maria. if it’s possible, his brown eyes soften further as he takes in his daughter’s gummy smile and happy coos. when she extends her chubby arms and makes grabby fingers, he takes her from your hip and holds her against his side. he presses a kiss to the side of her head, and you look away, feeling as though you’ve intruded on something private.

a car horn honking outside breaks the moment, and frankie passes maria off to you once more.

“that’ll be santi, i bet. time to go.”

“we’ll walk you out.”

once stood on the front porch, frankie slings his bag over his shoulder and gives the dark truck in his driveway a short wave. the passenger window rolls down, and a young man with neatly styled hair leans out the window.

“heyo, fish! let’s get a move on, brother!” he slaps the side of the truck before being roughly pulled back inside by a man you cannot see.

on a chuckle, you tell frankie, “have fun! i don’t really know what you’re going to do, but i hope you have fun—honestly.”

“thanks. it should be interesting.” frankie’s smile is tight, a little nervous, but you see the shadow of excitement around the corners of his eyes. he’s still a boy who loves adventure at heart, and he’s all the more charming for it.

suddenly, he wraps one arm around your shoulders, drawing you tight against his body. maria giggles as her face is pressed against her father’s chest, and the hand on your shoulder squeezes. you’re struck by how much he smells like fresh laundry detergent and his morning coffee. you can hear his heartbeat beneath your ear. he’s nervous—nervous to leave, maybe nervous to be holding you so openly—and your own heart rate matches his, erratic and unstable. he tilts his head slightly, his cheek pressed against the top of your head.

“take care of my baby,” he murmurs.

you respond automatically, naturally. “always.”

with that, he steps away, a fine sheen of moisture covering his eyes. he kisses maria’s forehead, and his temple is so close to your own mouth you consider kissing it, a good luck charm to send him off well.

you don’t kiss him, though. you just watch as he leaves, and when the truck starts to pull out of the drive, you wave maria’s arm, her hand flopping a lazy goodbye. you watch until the truck is out of sight and then you go inside.

*******

friday passes without issue; saturday, too.

but when sunday comes and goes without frankie’s return, concern settles in the pit of your stomach. it doesn’t take root, doesn’t bloom outright; just plants itself, prepared to germinate should his absence continue.

you know frankie. he’s capable. whatever it is he’s gone to do in south america, you know he can handle it. you’re sure of that.

the men he’s gone with—you think they’re capable, too. if they’re anything like frankie, they’re trained and prepared to adapt no matter the situation. if he trusts them, you trust them.

he’ll come home. maybe a day or two late, but he’ll come home.

on monday, you decide to put your concern to good use. sitting around all day, waiting for the phone to ring, or the front door to open won’t bring frankie back any sooner, and bottling all your worried energy will only make you pace a worn path into the floor or tear your hair out in clumps. it’s best you put that energy elsewhere, somewhere more productive.

inspiration strikes when you find a small can of rosewood paint in the garage. a sliver of painter’s tape is attached to the lid, though it curls around the edges with age, and you recognize frankie’s slanted handwriting: _baby’s room._

that’s it; there’s your idea. instead of worrying and wondering and pacing, you’ll just… spruce up maria’s nursery. a perfectly acceptable response to your concern that your boss has fallen off the face of the planet.

you manage to convince anna to help you, and together you take maria to the home décor store. you don’t think when you drop item after item into the basket. you just grab what suits your fancy—a large oval mirror to go over the dresser, a fluffy white rug, floor length rose curtains, and a mobile with felt woodland creatures hanging from the strings. you bounce maria on your hip, more out of nerves than affection, when you hand over your debit card to the cashier. but then you see a gentleman enter the store with a ratty baseball cap on, and your stomach lurches. you toss an extra pillow into the mix before the cashier can name your total. just a little something to soothe your aching butt-bone after sitting in that rocking chair for story time every night…

late into the afternoon, you and anna take turns playing with maria in the living room and painting small rainbows over maria’s crib with the rosewood paint. really, you do most of the painting. it keeps your mind busy, the slow drag of the paintbrush as you craft semi-circle after semi-circle. it keeps your mind from wandering to frankie, to wondering if he’s injured somewhere, to wondering if he’s thought of you, asleep in the bed that smells so much like him…

you shake your head, and your arm jerks to the side, smearing a line of paint. with a sigh, you make that rainbow a little bigger than all the rest, then set about hanging the mirror and draping the curtains and laying out the rug. all the while your eyes sting with unshed tears, but you aren’t sure why you’re crying. the nursery looks good; it looks lived in, built for a baby as precious as maria. you give a gentle push to the felt squirrel hanging from the mobile, and as you watch it spin, your throat seizes.

the concern that settled in your stomach on sunday has germinated, sprouting quickly as the hours pass and no word comes. he should be home by now; he really should be. or at least, he should have phoned or texted or _something_.

_shit_ —you’re worried.

still, you remind yourself it’s only monday. originally, he said he would be back on sunday, and it’s only monday. not terribly late. it’s early enough that his fight could have been cancelled, and he had no way of reaching you.

yes, that’s what you tell yourself when you bid anna a goodnight and crawl into bed, drinking in the lingering scent of his shampoo. his flight was cancelled; he couldn’t call you due to weather. he’ll be back in the morning.

*******

on thursday, you’re beside yourself.

a full week—a full week he’s been gone with no word explaining his absence.

you’ve taken to sleeping with maria by your side. the bed only seems to grow wider with each passing day that frankie doesn’t return, and you can’t take the solitude much longer. frankie should be here; maybe not in the empty space beside you specifically, but he should just be _here_.

maria sleeping on her back in the chasm to your left mends some of the worry eating away at your insides. at least, with her soft snores and the one arm flung over her head, you know she’s safe. there’s some part of you that worries you’ll wake up and find her gone, too.

but even her presence doesn’t keep you from crying into frankie’s pillow night after night.

you feel ridiculous, crying over your boss the way you do. he’s your boss for goodness’ sake—not your boyfriend, not your husband. he pays you to watch his daughter, and that’s it. still, you can’t tolerate the idea of him alone somewhere in the wide world, suffering, dying.

god, the thought makes you want to vomit.

in fact, after allowing yourself one too many minutes ruminating over what would become of maria if frankie _did_ go off to south america and get himself killed, you do vomit, barely making it to the bathroom in time.

you return to the bed, limbs quaking, mouth sour, stomach still reeling. you risk waking maria when you pull her against your chest, but thankfully, she remains under the heavy veil of sleep. holding your hand against her soft head, you wet her hair with your tears and pray to any god who will listen that they might bring your frankie home.

*******

on monday, eleven days after frankie’s departure, you break. you’ve been on the verge of collapse for days now, but when a thunderstorm erupts over the house, matching the turbulent storm roiling inside you, you finally break, panic threatening to consume you whole.

you go to the police.

the woman at the front desk of the police station gives you a blank stare when you say you want to report a missing person. she pops her bubblegum, blinks her eyes slowly. “he’s been gone how long you said?” she has a thick minnesota accent, which you think is strange considering you live right outside of el paso.

“eleven days.” when another burst of thunder followed by a flash of lightning crashes outside, maria opens her mouth on a sob. you grit your teeth and push her head closer to your neck to muffle her cries. “he was supposed to be back last sunday—the fifteenth.”

“you sure are taking your sweet time comin’ in to report.” she arches an eyebrow and, when you don’t budge, makes a displeased face. “okay, well, are you his next of kin?”

“his what?”

the woman sighs, popping her gum again. “his next of kin—his wife? his sister? who are you?”

“no, i’m—” you glance at maria, who cries all the more when the door bursts open on a gust of wind followed by a uniformed officer, soaked to the bone.

“ma’am?” the woman at the desk snaps her fingers then taps to the missing person’s form beneath her finger. “ma’am, who are you?”

you turn back, and the disinterest etched in the lines of her face springs tears to your eyes. you hold maria a little tighter to your side, willing away the urge to cry with her. “no, i’m the nanny.”

“the nanny?”

“yeah.”

“oh, then i can’t do anything for you, hon.” the woman leans back in her chair with a self-satisfied shrug. “you have to be the next of kin to fill out a missing person’s report, and the next of kin has gotta do it in person.”

“in person?” you sputter. “his sister lives in florida, for god’s sake! is this a national thing ‘cause it’s fuckin’ ridiculous! frankie’s been missing for eleven days and—”

“now, ma’am, i don’t appreciate that tone.”

“i don’t appreciate how difficult this is! a man is missing! and you’re just sitting on your fat ass telling me that—”

“sheryl, is there a problem here?” the uniformed officer from moments earlier steps to your side. his presence is overbearing as he glances between you and sheryl and the baby on your hip, who continues to cry despite your attempts to calm her with a soothing hand on her back.

“actually, ted, this young lady is mighty upset. wants to file a missing person’s report but waited eleven days—”

“eleven days?!

“—and isn’t the next of kin. she’s a little unhappy about that.”

ted, the officer, shoots you a surprised look. “you waited eleven days?”

shrinking backwards, you hold maria closer. “he said he would be back,” you mumble.

“that your kid?” ted points to maria and when you don’t answer, he huffs in derision. “baby, i think he just skipped town ‘s all. he left you with the kid and said bye-bye. he ain’t missing. he’s off with some new chick.”

your jaw drops. you glance at sheryl, but she wears a wry smile, the desk between you and her a barrier from your rage.

your entire being vibrates with fury, and you briefly consider decking the man leaning against sheryl’s deck with all the air of a puffed-up frat boy. before you can stop yourself, before you can think twice, you suck in your cheeks and spit on the tiled floor at the officer’s feet. the wad of your saliva doesn’t hit his shoe; it lands on the floor with a wet slap. tears blur your vision, but you don’t mistake the way ted laughs at you, turning to sheryl to share in the amusement.

“oh, hell, lady. go home! find some other asshole to fuck with ya!” ted lightly pushes your shoulder toward the door, but you stumble backwards as though thrown.

turning on your heel, you rip open the door and hurry into the rainstorm, thankful for the rain that obscures your tear-stained cheeks as you rush for the safety of your car.

*******

that night, you sleep on the living room couch.

you fall asleep early, sometime after you make it home from the police station and call frankie’s sister, who tells you she’ll be on the next flight out of tampa. the tv blasts a rerun of the latest summer blockbuster, and the sounds of gunfire and shouting invade your dreams. in your dreams, you see frankie, dead and hidden beneath underbrush in the south american jungle. you see your heart, swollen with angst, shattering. you see maria swung back and forth by an invisible string.

but then you hear him call to you, hear him say your name, and your nightmare morphs to a bed of wildflowers. maria sleeps snug in a basket built for a child, and frankie hovers over you on the picnic blanket. his fingertips brush the inside of your thigh as he whispers your name, and he kisses you softly. you fit together like puzzle pieces and—

“ _cariño_ , wake up. hey—it’s me.”

you jolt upwards out of sleep and nearly smack your head against frankie’s forehead in the process.

gasping for breath, brain still muddled by your dreams, it takes a moment for you to register that he’s standing there, at the foot of the couch, whole and in person. when you do finally see him clearly, there is no hesitation when you fling yourself into his arms. your arms circle his neck, and you crush your body against his in relief.

“oh my god, frankie,” you say, burrowing your face in his neck. “i thought you’d died! thank god you’re alright!”

he holds you tight, but only for a moment. yet in that moment, you feel the end of his nose brush the shell of your ear and his arms squeeze the small of your back. he holds you like he’s afraid to let go, and you don’t blame him.

you’re afraid to let go, too.

but you pull back all the same, just to get a look at his face. your hand falls to his cheek, and you frown. “you shaved,” you whisper.

he nods and lifts his hand to pull your fingers away from his skin. he steps back, lets his eyes roam your body before crossing behind the couch. his hand trails along the back of the sofa, and the muscles in his arms tighten when you say his name.

“frankie?”

with a sigh, he turns his back to you—and it’s like he’s missing all over again.

“you can take a few days off,” he says, fiddling with a set of keys he pulls from his pocket. “that wasn’t fair of me to leave you so—”

“are you alright?”

he looks over his shoulder, and you nearly gasp at the raw, unfiltered pain clouding his face. still, he nods, offering you the shoddiest smile he can muster. “yeah, sweetheart, i’m fine.”

he’s lying. you both know he’s lying.

“take a few days,” he says again. “i’ll call you.”

struck dumb, you can only nod. it’s clear he doesn’t want to talk. he wants you gone; you can tell by the way he hovers in the living room, eyes glancing to the door as you linger. he’s itching to shed the protective shell he’s wrapped himself in, and you won’t be the one to keep him from finding a moment of peace after his trip clearly went to shit. no matter how much you want to hug him again and kiss him all over and force him to tell you what the hell happened during his time away, time for all that can wait.

so, you hurry to pack your things, hastily throwing your clothes into your suitcase without so much as folding them. you leave the wet laundry in the washer; you can get that later.

at the door, suitcase heavy in hand, you look at frankie again, and he looks away.

“i’ll call you,” he whispers, a slight hitch in his tone.

“yeah, okay, frankie. you call me.”

emotion clogging your throat, you stumble to your car and throw your suitcase inside. then you collapse to the driver’s seat and sob.

_to be continued._


	2. Chapter 2

the raindrops that hit your body feel like bullets straight to the heart.

you’re a mess, soaked straight to the bone because when you pull into the parking lot and step out of your car, you find it hard to seek shelter from the pouring rain. all you can think about, all you can see, is frankie.

frankie and his big brown eyes. the partially healed cut along his cheekbone. the haunted look on his face. the immense weight on his shoulders.

you don’t know how long you stand in the parking lot, rain and tears obscuring your vision as you replay his words over and over again.

_yeah, sweetheart, i’m fine._

liar.

he’s not fine. you don’t have to be his mother or his sister or his girlfriend to know that. any passerby who might so much as catch a glimpse of his face through the front window would know, would see clear as day that he returned with ghosts chained to his ankles. those ghosts—they swirl around him, taunting and malicious, as visible as the puddles gathering at your feet.

yet he shut you out, refusing to confide anything of worth or substance. he didn’t even give you the barest of explanations for his disappearance.

eyelashes heavy with unshed tears, you scoff aloud. the rainwater that clings to your mouth sputters outwards into the night air.

and why should he have done otherwise? who are you to him but the nanny?

you’re just the nanny.

*******

“you love him, then?”

anna’s words make your head snap up, but she holds fast when you glare at her from your side of the couch.

she’d caught you when you fell through the door of your apartment, shivering and wet. she’d hushed your sobs with her quiet reassurances and toweled your hair dry in the bathroom while you fought to keep your legs from crumbling beneath you. now, you’re sat beside her on the faded sofa you got from the second-hand store, dressed in much warmer clothing, a steaming mug of tea between your palms. the heat of the ceramic pushes through the cold still lingering on your skin, though you aren’t certain anything will truly restore your warmth until you are sure frankie is safe and on the mend.

even so, her comment stokes the ire in your chest.

“what’s that supposed to mean?” you bite out.

anna doesn’t bat an eyelash. “you _like_ him, then?”

“anna, he’s my boss.”

“that doesn’t answer my question.”

you hesitate, twisting her question around in your mind like a moldable ball of clay. twist it, pull it, flatten it between your palms, the question remains the same no matter how you try to work the truth out of her query. she knows you, can read you like her favorite fashion magazine. any emotion you try and withhold from her watchful eyes, she pounces on all the quicker. it’s fruitless to try and evade.

with a groan, you drop against the back of the couch. your head bangs against the wall, but the moment of dull pain is nothing compared to the way your chest squeezes at the truth you’ve disregarded for so long. you close your eyes and force yourself to speak around your heavy tongue.

“yes, i like him.”

leaning closer, her bated breath fanning the hair around your forehead, anna pushes. “like him like him? as in more than a boss?”

you sit forward on a frown. the glass top of the coffee table rattles when you set your mug down with more force than necessary. “what do you want from me? a five-page analysis on my innermost feelings? feelings i don’t even know the half of?”

“i want you to tell the truth—to yourself more than to me. i’m mean, fuck, look at you!” she gestures to the melted makeup around your eyes, the sodden state of your hair, the exhaustion plaguing your shoulders. “you don’t wind up looking like that just ‘cause your boss came home. unless, of course, you’re fucking your boss, and i know you’re not fucking him.”

you look down, fold your hands between your knees, and tilt your feet inwards. your socks have tiny gnomes on them, and you study the way they have perched themselves in a precarious tower, feet on shoulders, climbing up your ankles.

anna gives a gentle squeeze to your elbow. “babe, you stood outside in the rain for five minutes looking like a zombie. you’ve got it bad—and that’s okay.”

you swallow hard and draw in a deep breath through your nose.

“yeah, i guess i do.” you nod as a surge of acceptance hits you square in the gut. you look at your roommate, and her grin mirrors the smile tugging on your lips. “i do like him, anna. i like him a lot.”

she tilts her head to the side fondly, squeezes your arm again. “i know.”

“he’s a good guy, you know? i mean, he’s had a hard go of it for a while, and there’s that stupid coke thing, but—he really _is_ a good guy.”

anna nods as your tongue grows loose, your thoughts running free. giddiness rises in your tight chest like you’re in grade-school all over again, telling your best friend about the boy who sits in the desk next to yours. only this isn’t grade-school, and your crush is the man who signs your check at the end of every friday. the simplicity of adolescent puppy love isn’t possible here; you know that. as much as you admire frankie, as much as you want him to look at you like you’ve hung the stars in the sky, it’s not that easy.

it’s not as easy as him scrawling a check mark in the box labeled _yes, i like you._

it’s not that easy.

for the moment, though, you set it all aside: the impossibility of your togetherness. you revel in the flustered feeling you’ve ignored for weeks on end, and you revert to your grade-school self. you’re just a young girl with a crush and a friend with whom you can share your excitement. after the week and a half you’ve had, losing sleep and turning at every noise, you figure you deserve a little fantasy.

for the first time, you let your cheeks grow warm at the thought of frankie truly seeing you, wanting you, craving you. you let anna pull out your phone and scroll through the few pictures of him you have lying in your photo album and the even fewer on his social accounts. you giggle over the dimple in his cheek and the soft curls beneath his ever-present standard oil cap. you wax poetic about the depths of his eyes and the strength of his shoulders, and you wonder aloud what it must feel like to have his plush lips brush yours.

the bone-crushing weariness catches up to you before too long, and you cut the moment of levity short. you’re tired down to the very soles of your feet and fibre of your being. you need rest more than you need anna’s company, grateful for her though you are. you tell her goodnight, promise you won’t worry about frankie until at least the morning—for your own sake.

but when you crawl in bed and replay his words, replay your hour with anna on the couch and the momentary burst of joy you’d felt just imagining him and you and maria, you fall to tears once more.

because who are you fucking kidding? it’s not that easy, and he made it clear when he returned: you’re just the nanny.

*******

frankie never calls like he promised.

initially, you aren’t surprised. it’s likely he hasn’t returned to work. you figure he’s recuperating from whatever the hell happened on his trip and giving himself a day or two to settle back into his routine. you can’t fault him for that.

you give him tuesday, and then wednesday, and then thursday. three days—three days ought to be enough. and if he wants you to watch maria on friday alone, you’ll do it. you miss her and her happy baby coos and the dribble that leaves the corner of her mouth when she takes too big a sip of milk. as much as you’re sure frankie wants to get back to his routine, you do too. those eleven days were hard on you, and you’re eager to put them behind you for good.

when frankie doesn’t text thursday evening, you find yourself feeling mildly perturbed more than anything. you know he’s home. you watched him walk through the door, and you threw your arms around him like a woman besotted. you felt him, solid and real, against your body. you know he’s there.

and yet he hasn’t called. hasn’t asked you to come back to work. hasn’t explained why he took off to another country and left you with his child for days and days and days on end with no word.

rather than jump to conclusions, you decide to drive over to the rancher on friday morning. save an elderly neighbor, you’re unsure if there’s anyone else nearby who might check on frankie and his daughter, and you’d never forgive yourself if you found out he was injured or ill and simply unable to reach out for help.

you find his truck parked in the driveway exactly where you left it monday night. the sight gives you some pause, but you push on to the front door, tamping down your worry as you go. though there’s an icky feeling at the base of your stomach, you have no reason for it other than your own penchant for anxiety. frankie will be there when you open the door. he’ll look up from the kitchen table and smile, apologize for forgetting to call, tell you why he left for so long, make everything all better. there’s no reason for the sudden wave of nausea to overtake you as you grip the door handle and find the house unlocked. he probably forgot to lock it on his way in from getting the mail and—

the odor of stale air hits you as soon as you cross the threshold. your heart plummets to your feet, and your bag drops to the ground with a thud.

“frankie?” your voice echoes, returning back to you like a boomerang. “it’s me!”

no answer—not even the rustle of feet in the hall.

the house is exactly as you left it: the tv in the corner of the living room buzzes with that same trashy reality channel you watched monday evening; the pillow you’d taken from frankie’s bed lays crumbled at the head of the couch where you’d slept; the crumb-ridden plate you never put in the sink still sits on the kitchen table. there’s no sign of frankie or maria or proof that any sort of living has continued in your absence. it’s as if you left and frankie dissolved into nothingness, taking his daughter with him, leaving the house and his belongings behind.

only you know that’s not true. his truck in the driveway tells you he’s here, and that’s reassuring, but more than that you can feel his presence. it’s like a cloud bloated with an oncoming storm, unmistakable and foreboding. you shiver and wrap your arms around yourself as a chill curls down your spine.

the baby monitor on the counter emits a shrill screech, and you jump, scrambling to turn down the volume with shaking hands—as if somehow the sound of maria’s cries might disturb the storm and unleash the wind and the rain and the angry cold.

breathing deep, you tiptoe down the darkened hallway. the door at the end of the hall—frankie’s door—stands open. a wash of daylight spills from his room, but from where you stand outside maria’s nursery, the storm swirls closer than it did before. you feel like dorothy gale, on the verge of being caught in a tornado and powerless to fight against the inevitable. you’ll have to brave the storm eventually, as dorothy did, but for the moment, you pause to check on maria.

you find her in the crib, the shades and curtains drawn, the darkness of her room like a sickness. she cries where she lays in her bed, eyes red with dried tears and nose crusted with goo. she wears the outfit you put her in on monday, and when you lift her, go to change her clothes and wipe her face with a wet cloth, you find her diaper soiled, likely left from overnight. the only evidence that frankie has so much as given her a passing glance are the empty milk bottles at the foot of her crib.

so, she’s been fed, changed a few times, but not much else. if it weren’t for the dread that washes over you like a wave of cold, you’d be burning with anger. it’s unlike frankie to turn a blind eye to even the smallest of maria’s cries, and if he’s gone days with only providing minimal care to his pride and joy, you aren’t sure you’re ready to see how he’s fared in taking care of himself.

once maria is changed, dressed, and soothed with a few gentle kisses to the temple, you place her in the jumper attached to the doorway of the laundry room. after an extended amount of time in her crib, you figure it will do her good to wiggle, and there’s nothing she loves more than watching you transfer laundry as she bounces in her chair, her feet barely skimming the carpet. bottle in hand, she giggles up at you as she bounces. the springs of the jumper creak and groan with her enthusiastic movements, but she’s happy, and that’s what matters. from her place in the jumper, you can keep an eye on her while you check on frankie, and you’d like to have her within eyesight instead of back in her crib.

you turn, then, and cross the threshold into frankie’s room.

sunlight fills the room, pierces every corner yet touches nothing. a pervasive sense of cold drips into your bones, and you feel as though your breath would crystalize if you exhaled. you hold your breath, however, and stand frozen in the doorway.

the eye of the storm lay in the center of the bed.

frankie rests on his side atop the sheets you made monday morning. his back faces you, and he wears the same clothes he came home in. he doesn’t move as you approach, giving no indication that he’s heard any of the noise you’ve made since entering the house. as you draw closer and peer over his shoulder, you find he’s awake, though his eyes are distant and unfocused. the facial hair you like so much, patchy and gray in all the right places, is back, and he looks and smells like he hasn’t moved in days.

you blink fast, uncomfortable and unsure of your role in this situation. gingerly, you place your hand on his shoulder; the muscles beneath your palm tense. a whisper of relief eases the squeeze in your chest. at least he knows, somewhere deep inside, that you’re there.

“frankie?” you drop your head and lean closer. “hey, frankie, can you hear me?”

he doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t so much as inhale sharply when you run your fingers over the hair matted along his forehead.

well, what the _fuck_ are you supposed to do now? maria—maria you know how to care for. but a grown man obviously battling demons you can’t begin to fathom? you don’t even know where to start.

with a sigh, you drop to the edge of the bed beside him. you throw one hand over his bulky frame and press your palm into the mattress, tilting your head so you can get a better view of his face. it feels strange to stare, to openly run your gaze over his body. in any other circumstance, you might feel your face heat with embarrassment or lust or some strange cocktail of the two. today you only feel concern.

you put your opposite hand on his hip and squeeze gently. the fabric of the god-awful blue shirt he wears is itchy to the touch. “i’m gonna help you, okay, frankie? you’re gonna be okay.” you brush away that stray lock of hair that continuously falls over his forehead no matter how much you push it back. “gonna help you, baby.”

you decide to try and wake frankie with a warm shower. as a child, you’d once watched your mother pull her wasted, passed out boyfriend into the bathroom shower after a night out. the shock of the water woke the bastard right up—enough to send him stumbling to the kitchen looking for more booze. if it worked for dale, maybe it would work for frankie. truly, you have no idea, but it’s the best you’ve got.

standing, you hook your arms around frankie’s chest, locking your hands over your wrists, and tug. he shifts toward the edge of the bed, and you tug again.

but you misjudge the force of your pull and fall backwards, landing on your tailbone with frankie’s entire body weight crashing on top of you.

“oh fuck!”

you lay there for a moment, frankie’s back pressed to your chest, his broad frame crushing your lungs as you stare at the popcorn ceiling above. a sob suddenly claws at the back of your throat. you wind your arms around his chest again, only this time, instead of moving to pull him to the en suite bathroom, you press your cheek to the top of his head and simply hold him tight.

you don’t know what happened in south america. at this point, you aren’t sure you want to know. all you know is that something happened and that something has driven frankie to his knees in agony. you hurt for him and desperately wish you could take his pain and make it your own. he doesn’t deserve any suffering, not after all the shit he’s had to wade through the last year.

it’s clear you’re out of your depth, though. as much as you’ve come to like frankie, as much as you want him to like you back, you don’t know how to care for him in this situation.

but someone else might.

you shift your body out from under frankie’s, careful to ease his head toward the carpet. he continues to stare at the ceiling, his eyes a million miles away. you crouch over him, hand to his cheek, and rub your thumb over the freshly-healed wound on his cheekbone. you keep your other hand firm on his chest, just to feel the steady rise and fall of his lungs as he breathes, just to know that yes, he’s still there—somewhere.

“i’m gonna go get help,” you say, surprised at the strength you find in your own voice. “i want to help you, but i can’t do it on my own.”

he doesn’t respond.

you can’t look at him as you whisk out of the bedroom, and your fingers fumble as you dial the first number you find on the list of frankie’s army buddies attached to the side of the fridge. for once in your life, you thank god for frankie’s aversion to technology. his old-school way of writing down names and numbers might just be his saving grace.

the phone rings twice before it’s picked up.

_“hello?”_

you jump straight to the point. “is this benny miller?”

_“uh… yeah?”_

“i need your help.”

*******

benny arrives fifteen minutes later, and when you open the front door, he doesn’t move. neither do you.

for a moment, you simply stare at one another, judging the other’s worth and intentions by appearance alone. he looks a lot like the meathead frat boys you avoid on campus, not a former special operative for the military. you definitely weren’t expecting someone younger than frankie or someone half as handsome as benny. you can’t help the way your hackles raise just by the look of him, all muscle and no intellect, but you hope and pray he’ll prove you wrong and help your frankie.

“you’re frankie’s girl then,” he finally says.

you frown, grip tightening on the side of the door. “what?”

benny doesn’t bother to explain as he steps past you into the house. he glances around the living room and into the kitchen before looking over his shoulder. “where’s he at?”

you point to the hallway. “his bedroom. i didn’t know what to do so—”

“you did good.” he offers you a reassuring smile, though his lips are pulled tight.

there’s a shadow on benny’s face, much like the one engulfing frankie’s, and you ask before you can stop yourself: “were you on that trip too?”

benny nods. “yeah.”

“it went bad?”

“yeah.”

“can you help him?”

benny sighs and runs a hand through his thick blond waves. “yeah, i can help him.”

you release a shaky breath as relief douses the nervous fire in your stomach. “thank you.”

you follow benny down the hall long enough to scoop maria from the bouncer and watch as he slips into frankie’s bedroom. your gut clenches at the sight of frankie still on the bedroom floor, now curled on his side. you turn away when benny whispers something and pull the door shut to give them some privacy.

you bustle in the kitchen to keep yourself busy, to keep your mind off of wondering how benny might go about helping frankie. there’s dirty dishes to load in the dishwasher and spoiled formula to dump and refill. the tasks, though menial, prove mind-numbing, and you appreciate a break from your spinning thoughts.

you give maria half of a banana, and she gurgles with happiness as she squeezes the fruit between her chubby fingers before shoving her fist in her mouth. she’s getting bigger, growing more confident and curious by the day, a far cry from the tiny little thing you’d taken charge of three and a half months ago. she smiles at you when you brush your knuckle down her cheek, allowing yourself a moment to envision watching her grow up to take the world by storm. footsteps break your reverie, and you look up.

benny stands at the end of the hallway looking as though he braved a thunderstorm. his clothes are sodden, and his hair lies flat against his head.

“what happened to you?”

he just shrugs. “had to get him in the shower somehow.”

“is he—”

“he’s gonna be okay.” he swipes a hand down his wet face and flings the gathering of water on his fingers to the floor. “can i have a towel?”

“oh! yes, yeah, sorry!” you jump from your seat and grab a hand towel from the drawer beside the dishwasher, tossing it across the room. benny catches it and rubs his face in the soft linen before dragging it over his head. “why don’t you go borrow some of frankie’s clothes and i’ll make you both lunch? if you’re hungry anyway…”

benny eyes you, his gaze narrowing as he considers your offer. finally, he shakes his head. “can’t stay. i’ve got a fight tonight, but thanks. fish is probably hungry, though, now that he’s up.” he extends his arm, towel in hand, and you take it from him.

you wring the fabric between your fingers. “thank you for helping him.”

“he’s my brother. we stick together—no matter what.”

“i’m glad he has you.”

benny breathes short through his nose, swinging his head back and forth in dismissal. “he’s lucky to have _you_.”

there’s a certain weight to benny’s words that gives you pause. when he gives you a wide grin, his eyes shimmering with mischief, you turn your head to the side, prepared to push him to explain his look and his earlier comment that you’re _frankie’s girl._ you don’t get the chance, though, because he moves for the front door before you can muster up the courage.

you follow behind quick, questions tumbling from your mouth on how you can best help frankie over the next few days. benny’s strides are long, his exit more like an escape from your incessant asking, but your mouth moves faster than his legs.

_what do i do if he goes comatose again? is there something i shouldn’t say? what if he gets angry, what do i do then? should i ask him to tell me what happened? should i bring maria in or will that be too much?_

at the open door, benny stops, his hand on the knob, eyebrow tilted upwards as he waits for you to stop talking. the afternoon sun warms your face, and you pause, inhale deeply, exhale with a huff. you run a hand through your hair, tugging on the strands at the top of your head; nervous habit.

“can i call you again if—if i need help?” you sound uncertain, even to your own ears, and you’re sure that doesn’t inspire confidence in you from benny’s point-of-view.

benny looks at you with a mixture of fondness and sympathy. he reaches out to squeeze your shoulder. “how ‘bout i come by tomorrow afternoon,” he offers. “just to check in.”

“you’d do that?”

he pulls a face like your question is the most asinine thing he’s ever heard. his hand slips from your shoulder as he plants his fist on his hip. “fuck yeah—he’s my brother!”

unbidden, you laugh, short and simple, but it’s the first time anything as struck you as humorous in nigh on two weeks. it feels good to smile, to find levity in life once again, and you cling to the feeling, even as benny says goodbye and jogs to his car parked on the street.

you hold tight to your smile when you shut the door and gather maria from her high-chair. she smiles along with you, ever the happy spot in a dull and gray world. you’ve heard horror stories from friends at school and your cousins over the years; maria’s easy-going and bubbly nature is uncommon even for the best of babies. you truly won the jackpot when it came to her. you’d like to think you’ve won the jackpot when it came to her dad, too, but that thought makes your heart skip a beat, and you shove it aside for later. you’d rather not fall into your silly daydreams—the ones where frankie pines for you as much as you have begun to pine for him—when you enter his bedroom.

still, it’s hard not to smile a little when you do knock on frankie’s door and he calls for you to enter. you’ve missed the sound of his voice.

when you open the door and peek inside, you find him sat on the bed, though this time he’s upright, his back against the wooden headboard, hair wet and fresh clothes on his body. he’s fiddling with a small black cube, twisting and turning it over and over between his fingers, pushing a button here or turning a dial there. the motions appear rote, completely mindless, but as you step to the edge of the bed, you can see the gentle way his chest rises and falls with easy breathing. his eyes are focused, his hands too. the storm that radiated from his body this morning is gone, replaced with a still, clear sky, much like the one visible through his own window.

he looks up after a moment, and when he meets your gaze, you bite your tongue to keep from exhaling like a love-sick idiot. compared to the vacant look in his eyes earlier, you can see him now, his essence, swimming in those beautiful brown depths.

“hey,” he whispers.

you adjust maria on your hip. “hey yourself.”

“sorry about—”

you cut him off. “don’t. don’t apologize, frankie.”

he inhales deeply, and you swear you can see tears spring to his eyes. you just smile a little wider and cock your head toward the door. “hungry?”

*******

the following few days continue in much the same pattern: you arrive at the house early, go about your daily business, yet all the while frankie is there. he doesn’t return to work, and you don’t ask him why. the shadow still clinging to his face is reason enough.

he putzes from room to room, tinkers with things in the garage, naps for long periods of time in the afternoon. he’s quiet mostly. always has been, but his silence is different now. it’s heavy, weighed down by memories he does not share. you don’t ask him to divulge any of his secrets; benny tells you not to push him, and you’re content not knowing. it’s enough that he’s present in his slow movements from kitchen to living room and back again.

you take walks around the neighborhood in the late mornings. benny encourages you to get him out of the house some, away from the monotony of household chores and the ease with which he might fall into destructive thought patterns he won’t voice.

february in texas requires little bundling, and it’s easy to shrug a jacket on and take a stroll around the block. you push maria in her stroller, and frankie walks beside you with his hands in his pockets and his cap low on his brow. you point out the way his neighbors still have their christmas decorations up, and frankie quips that he’s going to have to go take them down himself in the middle of the night. he tells you his theory that the house at the end of the street—the one with the boarded-up windows—is a meeting house for the mafia, and you laugh at that. his mouth flicks upwards at the sound of your laugh. when a beat-up sports car takes the turn at the corner too sharp, he puts his hand on your hip and draws you away from the curb. his hand remains at the small of your back from the rest of the walk.

he always apologizes for sleeping in the afternoons, but you tell him to shut up. he needs his rest, and you’re there to keep the house running while he gets back on his feet.

in the evenings, after he wakes from a nap, you picnic on his bed. he finds the evenings to be the hardest these days, his energy so depleted that it’s much easier for you to bring dinner to him and for you to stay to keep him company. he keeps the sports channel playing on the tv mounted on the wall, and the low hum of the commentators fills the gaps while you eat. it’s strange, you think, that you sit cross-legged on your boss’s bed each evening, a bowl or plate of whatever you’d prepared firm in hand. neither of you bring up the obvious blurred lines of your relationship—not even when you fall asleep on his shoulder after dinner one evening.

some things don’t need to be said.

*******

friday, a week after you found frankie in his stupor, he announces he’s going fishing with benny.

you look up from the kitchen table where you’re busy cutting coupons from the grocery store’s booklet. frankie stands at the edge of the kitchen, his book ( _black knights: the story of the tuskegee airmen_ ) tucked beneath his arm. he wears his glasses—wide lens, thin frames—more often now, and the sight of them perched on his nose sends a thrill to your stomach.

he’s so domestic; you’re _both_ so domestic. god, it sends your heart racing sometimes.

“you’re going fishing?” you ask.

“yeah—me and ben. just for a little while. he’s thinks—well, _i_ think it would be good to go out some.”

“that sounds great, frankie.” you grin. “i can fix something nice for supper, and you can fry the fish.”

frankie nods, swallowing hard as his eyes dart to the side. his fingers flex around the book in his hand before he looks back at you. “that would be nice. maybe we can sit at the table like a normal family for once.”

the way your core tightens instinctively at the word _family_ is downright embarrassing. your jaw drops slightly, eyes wide as you consider the implications of his sentence. frankie must notice because he hurries to the hallway, shouting over his shoulder something about the grocery store. you don’t hear; your ears are too filled with an excited, nervous buzzing.

holy shit—you are a little family, aren’t you? you have been for some time, but that’s simply been the nature of the job. you’re his nine-to-five wife, maria’s nine-to-five mother. but now—now it feels like a lot more. at least on your end, anyway.

it hits you like a bale of hay tossed violently in a windstorm: you fucking love him, the son of a bitch. you love him so much it hurts. you suspect you’ve loved him for a while, but the events of the last month and his disappearance and reentry into normal living has compounded to drench you in nothing but love and adoration for francisco morales. him and his stupid hair and stupid patchy beard and really kissable face. him and his tenacity, his resilience, his good nature.

and based on that one word—family, said so easily, so naturally—maybe—just maybe—there’s a chance he loves you too.

when benny arrives to drive frankie to the lake, you see them to the car, showing maria the fishing poles they drop in the bed of the truck. benny taps her cheek with one of the gummy worms used as bait for good measure, and she cackles, clapping her hands together. frankie tugs on one of maria’s small pigtails and then—

and then he brushes his knuckle beneath your chin, eyes dancing with affection, before hopping into the truck and riding off.

you buzz like a happy bumblebee for the rest of the day. at the grocery store, as you gather items for supper, you grin like an idiot, and when the cashier asks you why you’re so smiley, you merely bite your lip and shrug, though deep down, you know.

frankie’s simple touch electrifies you, gives you wings, makes you want to go outside and shout with joy. it’s a juvenile reaction, of that there’s no doubt. your grade-school crush flares to life and runs with wild abandon at the mere _idea_ that frankie reciprocates your feelings. but even if he just thinks you’re a good piece of ass, you don’t care. you’ll take what you can get, any crumb or morsel he gives you. as it stands, you’ll be on cloud-nine for a week thanks to the simple brush of his finger.

you’ve got it _bad_ —in the best kind of way.

you play the radio loud as you prepare supper. maria toddles back and forth in the circular baby walker, her little legs kicking against the floor as she runs laps around the table. coleslaw made, tea chilling in the fridge, you start on the hushpuppies, bouncing between your bowl of cornmeal and the recipe on your phone. it is to the tune of a whitney houston song and the round dough-balls sizzling in the cast-iron skillet on the stove that frankie and benny return from the lake.

benny comes through the garage door first. “hey, mama! we brought home the goods!” he holds up a red rope laden with dead fish, and you screech at the site.

“oh my god, benny, get that out of the kitchen!”

benny glances between the fish and your pinched face. “what? don’t you know how they make fish sticks?”

“alright, alright, that’s enough. stop teasing the poor girl.” frankie steps through the garage door and bends to lift maria from the walker. he nudges benny’s shoulder with his fist. “you’re dripping fish juice on my linoleum.”

“it builds character for the linoleum.”

“shut up, and go get the fryer started.”

benny rolls his eyes, tossing you a wink, before skirting back into the garage.

frankie steps around the dinner table, and for a moment, you think he’s about to lean forward and kiss your forehead like a husband might his wife after an afternoon apart. his gaze is soft and mouth caught in an easy smile, one hand rubbing maria’s back as the other reaches for you.

only he stops himself short, and his arm falls to his side.

you swallow around the bundle of nerves in your throat and slip past him to turn the hushpuppies. “did you have fun?” you ask over your shoulder.

frankie nods. “yeah, it was good to be out.” he looks toward the garage at the sound of a metallic crash; he ignores it. “fresh air did me good.”

“i’m glad.”

“hushpuppies smell good.” he closes in behind you, his height compared to yours a comforting strength. you inhale—partially on accident, partially on purpose—and beneath the scent of the hushpuppies, you smell the outdoors clinging to his worn tan jacket and the gum he chews whenever he’s anxious.

“thanks. it’s my mom’s recipe—kinda. adapted with what i could find in the pantry.”

“yeah?” he leans closer, and the movement causes his shoulder to bump against yours. “your mom as good a cook as you?”

you twist your head at the comment, prepared to laugh it off, but he’s so close you can practically taste the gum in his mouth as he exhales. up close, you notice the wiry gray hairs in his beard all the more and the dimple ingrained in his cheek. any thought tumbling through your head dries up in an instant, replaced with one urge flashing like a neon sign:

_kiss him for fuck’s sake!_

your eyes drop to his lips, their pillowy plushness, and you feel his gaze slide to yours. even with maria perched on his hip, you tilt forward on your toes and—

“fish! the fuckin’ thing isn’t working!”

—benny ruins the moment.

with a shaky exhale, you take maria from frankie’s arms and turn your back to him as you deposit her in the walker once more. “you’d better get out there,” you stutter. “before all you caught goes bad.”

you hear frankie rub his palms along his jeans, can practically see the way he lifts his cap from his head and shoves it back down again, before he mumbles under his breath and slips out the door.

when he’s gone, you sag against the counter, turning your eyes to maria. “did that just happen?” you whisper.

she squeals in response, high-pitched and eager. 

you couldn’t agree more.

*******

after supper, frankie takes maria down the hallway for her bath and bedtime routine. he’s tired, you can see. long days wear him down quickly now, and you don’t fight when he takes the opportunity for a bit of quiet and solitude. as solitary as taking care of his daughter can be, anyway.

benny helps you clean up from dinner. you wash, he dries, and he regales you with stories from his time in the service alongside frankie. they’re humorous stories only, but you’re grateful all the same for a peek into frankie’s past life.

“wait—you’re telling me that frankie has translated a fight between your brother and a banana salesman?”

“funniest fuckin’ thing i’ve ever seen! you should have seen his eyes when he was trying to keep up with their yelling.” benny bounces his gaze back and forth wildly, his mouth round in a look of mock distress. you laugh at both the mental picture of frankie and benny’s exaggerated retelling.

“will wanted the whole bushel, but the guy wouldn’t let up the price, and then they got into it. i think at some point they were yelling about the chiquita banana lady.” he shakes his head, toweling off a plate. “i’ve never seen fish talk so much or so fast.”

“and the time he lost all his clothes? you glossed over that bit.”

“okay, now _that_ might have been the funniest thing i’ve ever seen. it was just a harmless prank, but i think if i tell you all the details he might skin me like one of those fish we ate.”

pausing in your work, you lean against the counter. “no, tell me. i want to know.”

benny narrows his eyes in consideration. “i don’t know. it’s something he—”

“oh come on.” lifting your hand from the soapy water, you push his arm. “tell me! he never talks about that part of his life. i’d like to know at least the happy bits.”

with a stern finger pointed at your chest, benny relents. “okay, but if i get in trouble for this, you take the fall.” he sets aside a freshly dried bowl and holds up both hands as he prepares to tell his story. “so, it all started when pope and i saw that fish—”

“ben.”

in unison, you turn alongside benny at the sound of frankie’s tight voice.

he stands at the end of the hallway, hands on his hips. a shadow clings to his face, as it normally does, but instead of weariness, this shadow vibrates with poorly concealed anger. his brow is pulled taut, his jaw clenched as he works it back and forth. he cocks his head toward the front door, a silent signal for benny’s untimely exit.

“frankie?” you start, but ben stops you with a simple shake of his head.

he glances between your concerned face and frankie’s glower before scoffing. dragging his jacket from the back of a kitchen chair, he shrugs it on and pops the collar with a snap. “you better tell her, man,” he hisses. “other guys ain’t me, you know.”

frankie’s nostrils flare. “go home, ben.” 

you step around the dinner table. “frankie, what has gotten into—”

“save it, babe.” benny keeps his eyes trained on frankie as he speaks. “he’s as stubborn as a mule when it comes to this kinda stuff.” he leaves the house in a huff and a mock salute, the door slamming in his wake.

you jump, your eyes snapping to the baby monitor.

“she’s asleep.” frankie steps to the top section of the fridge and roots for a gallon of ice-cream in the freezer. the door shuts with a heavy thud.

you grit your teeth. “won’t be for long if you two keep slamming doors like a bunch of teenagers.” leaning back against the counter, you cross your arms, watching frankie’s movements as he digs into the gallon of cookies-and-cream with a spoon. “what was that all about?”

he looks up through his lashes, pausing long enough to speak around the cold dessert in his mouth. “does it fuckin’ matter?”

“well, yeah, kinda. you were rude as hell, especially after all he’s done.”

“all he’s done?” frankie slams the lid back on the ice-cream container and tosses it to the table. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“you know exactly what it means. he’s helped as much as i have in the last week. why’d you kick him out like that?”

frankie plants his hands on his hips, swings his head back and forth. he keeps his gaze trained on the ugly linoleum, and you think he’s probably imagining the earth swallowing him whole as a way to get away from the conversation. “i’m not having this discussion with you.”

for the first time since knowing him, you push. you didn’t push when he hired you and vaguely told you about his ex-wife. you didn’t push when he disappeared for eleven days and never explained why. you didn’t push when he nearly lost himself to the memory of his time away.

but today—today you push.

“sure seems like benny thinks we should have _some_ sort of discussion. what is it you’re supposed to tell me?”

frankie looks up and turns his glower on you. the anger in his eyes makes your blood run cold, but you hold fast. “will you just leave it?”

“no! we were having a perfectly nice evening and then you decide that something benny did wasn’t up to snuff and i want to know why! what is you aren’t telling me?”

with a groan, frankie pushes away from the table with his palms. “maybe you should go home too,” he mumbles, turning to the side. he runs a hand over his jaw, and you see your window closing rapidly. if you don’t jump through now, the opportunity might be closed for good.

so, you jump through, heart first, hoping against everything telling you it’s impossible that frankie stands at the precipice of something life-altering.

stepping around the table, you grab frankie’s elbow.

you open your mouth.

he turns to look at you.

you both speak at once.

“frankie, tell me what—”

“i think i love you.”

_to be continued._


	3. Chapter 3

“i think i love you.” 

those five words hang in the air, monstrous in their size and gravity. yet despite their intimidating presence, you simply stand, dumbstruck, in the face of such a hesitant declaration.

surely, you’re dreaming. surely, you’ve fallen asleep on the couch after cleaning up from supper, belly full of good food and heart swollen with domesticity. you like playing house with frankie; hell, you _love_ playing house with frankie. and tonight proved the perfect fodder for your dreams, so there’s no way _this_ —him confessing his love for you—is reality. absolutely not. the way his tongue endearingly stutters around those words is just the product of the pie you made for dessert. nothing more. 

frankie shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “well… say something?” 

you blink. reality comes back to you in a rush, and you find yourself standing in your boss’s kitchen, slick linoleum beneath your socked feet, your boss’s face pinched in distress as he waits for you to respond to his love confession. inhaling shortly, you plant your hands on your hips. 

“i’m sorry—what?” 

frankie’s frown mirrors your own. he hesitates before saying, “wait, what are you—” he narrows his eyes, tilts his chin with a measure of umbrage. “i just told you i love you.” 

“yes, i heard that.” 

“and you said what, like you’re confused.” 

“yes, i did… because i am.” 

it’s frankie’s turn to put his hands on his hips, and he does so with a huff of indignation. he shakes his head, deep lines of frustration creasing his brow. “maybe i’ve misread the situation then.” he swipes a hand over his jaw and turns to the side, avoiding your eyes. “fuck,” he mutters. 

at the pained look on his face, you jolt from your stupor and catch his elbow for the second time in one evening, squeezing your fingertips into his skin. alarmed as you may be, this is not the moment for entertaining doubts. though part of you doubts he is truly serious, though part of you doubts this moment is even happening, frankie deserves nothing but a response etched in stone so that he might read it over and over to be sure of its sincerity. you’ve bungled your response thus far, and you can feel him slipping into the worn, comfortable uncertainty he wears like a cloak. 

sucking in a breath, you fumble over your next sentence, your brain lightyears ahead of your mouth. “wait—i’m sorry—frankie, let me—”

“no, i shouldn’t have—” he shakes his head in earnest now, his cheeks flush with embarrassment. he can’t meet your gaze as he steps away, out from under your warm hand. “i shouldn’t have said anything. fuck, i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to make you—”

swinging around to grab both of his shoulders, you stop him from retreating any further. you hold his wide-eyed stare and set your chin, determination running through your veins like a wildfire. your muscles quiver with poorly restrained urgency, and your heart feels like it might tumble out of your mouth the moment you speak. still, you surge forward, allowing that electrifying cocktail of urgency and giddiness and adrenaline mixing in your stomach to be your propellant.

“would you shut up, old man, and let me speak?!” you squeak at the climax of your impassioned plea, and frankie’s jaw loosens, his lips parting in surprise, but it’s all the hesitation you need.

“don’t you know that i’ve loved you ever since i saw your embarrassing excuse for a job advertisement? loved you even more when i finally met the man who made it?” your hands slide down his arms to grab his wrists, and you find his fingers tremble against your palms. “don’t you realize how much you—you and maria—mean to me?” 

“i thought–” he draws in a breath, eyes squeezed shut as he concentrates. “i thought it was just me. that _i_ was the one with a stupid crush and that you were just being nice because i’m so screwed up.” opening his eyes, the ghost of a smile flickers across his face as he moves his hands to rest on the curve of your neck. his pads of his thumb skim the underside of your jaw. “god, i feel like a fuckin’ teenager when i’m around you.” 

you hum, leaning into his touch. your own hands trail back and forth along his forearms. the muscles beneath your fingertips tighten beneath your touch, and you smile. “i feel like i’m in middle school all over again.” 

with a groan, frankie tilts his head back. his eyes sparkle with mirth, and for the first time in days, his face is devoid of any shadow. “oh, don’t say that! don’t make me feel like an old creep.”

“you are old,” you say with a smirk. “but not a creep.” sobering, you hold his gaze and lift one of your hands to cup his cheek. “i love you, francisco—you and your stupid, disgusting hat and the way you stomp all over the house because you don’t know how to walk quietly and your bravery and your tender heart and—”

pressing one hand against the small of your back and splaying the fingers of his opposite hand along the column of your neck, frankie drags you forward and slams his mouth against yours, effectively silencing any further compliments you possess. you gasp in surprise, moving to ball your fist in the soft cotton of his henley. he holds you so tightly, so desperately, you can feel his rapid heartbeat against your own chest. the frantic thrum of his pulse is no different than yours. your cheeks warm, blood pumping fast through your veins.

he tastes sweet, like the chocolate chip pie you made for dessert. with some measure of hesitance, he moves his mouth over yours, testing the waters, waiting for you to open like a flower under the sun. for your part, you cling to him, sigh with appreciation when he licks into your mouth for the first time, and slide your hips against his when he pushes you closer to himself. 

fuck, you can practically feel your heartbeat in your core, a resolute _pump, pump, pump_ within the place you need him— _want_ him—most. 

pulling your lips from his to catch your breath, you release a shaky exhale. “this has gotta be some sort of dream,” you mutter, more to yourself than to him. 

your eyes roll back, your head tilted toward the ceiling, as he moves his mouth down your throat. the soft curls at the base of his skull feel like water between your fingers, and you’re dizzy with it all: his lips on your neck, sucking gently, his strong arms around your back, the pressure of his growing hard-on against your hip. he mumbles a response against your skin, his tongue warm and wet, but you don’t understand his words, muffled as they are.

he comes up for air, grabs either side of your face, and kisses you softly. “god, you taste so good,” he murmurs, the tip of his nose brushing yours. “better than i imagined.”

your heart squeezes so tightly at his words you briefly wonder if you’ve gone into cardiac arrest. your legs tremble beneath you, and suddenly you’re back in your apartment, anna by your side. 

one week ago, you’d been sobbing, your heart torn by frankie’s homecoming and subsequent shunning. standing in the cluttered bathroom, hair and makeup products scattered along the counter, you hadn’t been sure if your legs would hold you up as you mourned whatever haunted your boss. now, with his mouth on yours— _your boss’s_ mouth on yours—his hands skimming your waist, you aren’t sure if your legs will hold you up for an entirely different reason.

you wrap your arms around his neck. “take me to bed, baby,” you whisper. “please.”

frankie pauses. his tongue darts out to wet his lips as his eyes bounce between yours. his chest heaves with his labored breathing, and a muscle in his neck bulges. “i don’t—are you sure?” the thumb at your waist slips beneath the hem of your t-shirt, the pad of his finger warm on your skin. “i don’t want to take advantage of you. i mean, technically, i owe you a couple hundred for this week and—”

“you think too much,” you say. “as smart as you are, you think too much.” 

“it’s kept me alive this long.”

shaking your head, you kiss him again, hard, curling your body against his. “fuck me, frankie— _please._ ”

a growl, low and heady, rumbles in his throat.

in an instant, frankie leaves all of his military-trained sense behind.

gripping your hand, he pulls you down the darkened hallway, his mission evident: get you to the bedroom and get you to the bedroom fast. you smile, laughing at his urgency as you struggle to keep up behind his long strides. you stretch your free hand toward the wall when you trip over a mislaid toy, and you laugh a little louder, sharp in the silent hall, before slapping your palm over your mouth to muffle the sound. maria’s room isn’t far off, and you would simply _evaporate_ if she woke and interrupted what is surely about to be the best night of your life. 

frankie pauses long enough to help you stand straight, though, really, he doesn’t have to. you stumbled in your haste and your excitement, but frankie, before anything else, is a gentleman. he does that thing again—brushes his knuckle beneath your chin—when you meet his gaze, and you audibly sigh. like a fuckin’ middle schooler.

he has the audacity to smirk.

before refocusing his attention on the bedroom at the end of the hall, frankie hesitates at his daughter’s door. the hinges squeak, and he winces, but pushes into the nursery anyway. he tilts his head around the doorframe, blindly reaching behind his back for your hand as he stares into the room illuminated by a sole hello kitty night light. when he shuts the door once more, turns to give you a reassuring smile, and whispers, “she’s asleep,” you bite your lower lip to keep from crying.

you slide your hand over his chest to grasp the back of his neck. “i love you so much.”

the hallway night light glistens in frankie’s warm, teary gaze. he blinks the tears away, but you see them—clear as day you see his tears reflected in the mushroom shaped night light he broke down and let you buy after the other industrial bulb continued to break despite his best efforts. 

he steps close and lowers his mouth to yours. the frantic pace of moments before is gone, replaced with a tenderness you’ve never experienced; not with him or any other partner. he cups your jaw and kisses you slowly, thoroughly, his tongue tracing every inch of your mouth, before circling his arms around your waist and lifting. you twine your arms around his broad shoulders, your legs around his hips, and hold tight, afraid that if you let go, you’ll wake up and it will all be gone in a puff of smoke and mirrors. 

once you cross the threshold to his bedroom, he shuts the door with a swift kick of his foot, his mouth still ravaging yours. the orange glow of sunset spills through the window overlooking the street. the light casts the room in a heavenly sort of glow, and you wonder if this is not a dream but some form of ultimate perfection. heaven, perhaps. you’ve done nothing to deserve heaven, but maybe—if you’re lucky—this perfection will last for eternity, and you’ll be caught in it like a bee caught in honey, drowned in sweetness.

you’re so taken by the taste of frankie, the feel of his muscles beneath your hands, that you barely register your back meeting the downy plush of his bed comforter. he kisses you soundly before dragging himself away, taking his warmth and his strength with him. heat rushes to your cheeks when you whimper as he hurries to the window and snaps the curtains shut. it’s embarrassing—the way you’re so affected by him—but you can’t help it. 

not when you love him so much.

he returns to the end of the bed, eyes dark with need, and you sit up, hands hurriedly lifting the well-worn henley from his torso. he runs his knuckles down the side of your face as you lean forward and lave your tongue over the warm skin of his stomach. the muscles beneath your mouth tighten as he sucks in a breath, but you just smirk and continue your slow, wet assault on his sun-kissed form. you spend an extra moment or two on the rough patches of his body—the silvery scars on his left hip and beneath his ribs, the fading remnants of deep bruises from his time away. as you pepper those war-born markings with your mouth, he holds the back of your head, pushing you closer to his past injuries. he hisses softly when you nip against the flesh on his ribs, and you flick your eyes upwards to meet his gaze. 

he doesn’t speak a word; yet his message is clear: he loves you. 

you exhale and resume your ministrations before losing yourself entirely to the intensity of his stare. 

sinking lower on the bed comforter, you fiddle with the waistband of his jeans. your hands shake as you undo the button and zipper and wrestle with the fabric on his hips. 

a stampede of horses have long since taken up residence in your chest, replacing the familiar beat of your heart. your throat seizes around your voice, your breath coming short. fuck—you’re nervous. nervous and horribly, terribly excited. you’ve wanted this— _badly_ —for longer than you care to acknowledge, and watching frankie’s jeans ease past his hips and drop to the floor, knowing that the stiffness in his boxer briefs is your doing—it sends your head and your heart and your cunt reeling.

you dip your head and place an open-mouthed kiss on the firm bulge in frankie’s underwear. he gives a strangled groan, his hand fisting in your hair, and you suck gently through the dark fabric. 

in an instant, he’s removed your mouth, grabbed your shoulders, and tossed you toward the headboard. you would shriek in surprise, but when you land, perched on your elbows, and see the heady darkness swimming in frankie’s eyes, you snap your jaw shut, worried naught but a moan would drip from between your lips if you open your mouth. 

he settles on his knees at your feet and reaches for one of your ankles. “you’ve done too much for me,” he whispers, inching his fingers upwards to remove your avocado-print socks. you flush when he chuckles under his breath at the sight of the halved avocados, smiling with their little stick arms and legs. he looks up, his lips caught in a smirk as he drags the socks from your feet. “let me make you feel good, sweetheart. let me do something for you for once.”

drawing your lower lip between your teeth, you nod. “okay.” 

frankie makes slow work of removing your socks. he kisses each ankle and the rise of your shin, pushing the fabric of your tight leggings as high as he can, his tongue following the unveiling of your skin. there’s a rectangle of mesh over either thigh, and he sets his mouth on the skin beneath the revealing fabric. you drop your head back on a sigh, sure that he can sense your arousal through your leggings. you feel like you’re going to burst with it—the steady hum of desire between your legs. there are worse ways to go, you think.

when his hands grasp the waistband of your pants and he tugs, you feel like you might vomit with nerves as he pulls the leggings from your lower half. it’s been a long time since you’ve been with anyone, much less been with anyone you can honestly say you love. your initial instinct is to cover yourself, to squeeze your legs shut and wait for him to turn off the side table lamp and crawl overtop of you. 

he does neither.

instead, he tosses your leggings to the growing pile of clothes on the floor and sinks to his stomach with a groan, his eyes tight on the purple fabric of your underwear. “oh fuck, baby,” he says, sliding one hand up your leg to skim across your pubic bone. his thumb dips down and _presses_ against your clit through the damp cloth.

once more, your head drops back, only this time you can’t help but moan. “ _oh!”_

“look at you.” he says it with an air of reverence that makes your cheeks hot. you unwittingly go to draw your knees together, but he stops you with a firm hand to either thigh. “no, let me look at you.” 

your cunt clenches around nothing at his words. “frankie…”

“i mean it: look at you. shit, you’re so beautiful.” 

he moves to his knees and reaches for your hand. you give him your palm, and he tightens his hold on your wrist, pulling you to an awkward seated position, your ass against his legs, hands on his shoulders, feet planted firmly on the bed. trusting that you’ll hold tight to him, he lifts your shirt over your head and flings it over his shoulder. he kisses you, then, and you don’t mistake the way his hands drift down your back to toy with the clasp of your bra, but your heart hammers so frantically in your chest and your hips give an experimental rock against the tops of his legs that you don’t seem to really notice when your bra is gone and your breasts laid bare to him. it’s only when his mouth lifts from yours and lands on the swell of your chest that you gasp in surprise. he sucks on your skin, leaving angry marks that will bloom to bruises by morning, but you don’t care. your fingernails dig into the flesh of his back as you grip him tight. 

with one hand splayed against the small of your back and the other cupping the weight of your breast, frankie trails long wet paths from your neck to your nipple and back again. an errant tear slips from the corner of your eye when he nips the taut peak of your breast, and you shudder, crying out in such a way that he stops entirely, his body frozen.

“what is it?” he asks, worry and fear pushing the lust from his voice. “do you want me to stop?” 

you open your eyes and swallow past your dry throat. you struggle to maintain your composure, your breathing ragged and chest heaving, though you aren’t entirely certain what has you so close to crying. maybe it’s the past month, overwhelming to say the least, finally coming to a close in this unexpected way. maybe it’s because you’ve never had anyone truly make love to you, and here frankie is, ravishing you like no one has ever bothered to do. whatever it is, you give yourself a moment to breathe, tilting your head forward to hide your face against his neck.

“we can stop,” he soothes, rubbing his palm up and down your spine. “just tell me and we can stop.”

“no, i don’t want to,” you finally say, shaking your head for extra measure. “i just—” you inhale through your nose. “i…”

frankie’s eyes soften as understanding dawns on his face like the sunrise. it’s funny—you think he must understand you better than you understand yourself. perhaps that’s what love is: two souls becoming so intune with one another that nothing can keep them apart, not uncertainty, not misfortune, not even death itself. 

“i know,” he says. “i love you too.” 

cupping your cheeks, he kisses you as he lowers your back to the mattress. there’s less of a preamble now. you both know what you want, and you’ve waited long enough to get it. you can savor one another for the rest of your lives. right now, you just need to feel him in his entirety as a reminder that yes, he’s home and he’s safe and he’s _yours._

with nimble fingers, frankie removes your soaked underwear before kicking off his own final layer. his cock, released from the strains of his boxer briefs, rests heavy against his stomach. you nearly keen at the sight, and you spread your legs wide to make room for him between your hips. you lick your lips with anticipation, and frankie laughs. 

“eager then, are we?” 

“shut up,” you grumble, watching as he leans over, the muscles in his back rippling, to grab a condom from the bedside table. 

he fumbles with the foil wrapper, a crease between his brow. “shit, i hope these things aren’t expired.” 

it’s your turn to laugh, and you arch your brow on a smirk as he rolls the condom onto his length. “been that long, baby, boy?” 

gripping one of your hips, he presses his palm to the space beside your head. “shut up,” he mumbles. 

you can’t think of a witty enough retort when he drags the head of his cock between your soaked folds. you gasp, your eyes rolling back into your skull as he continues to drag up and down and up and down, a slow, torturous game. you bite your lower lip hard on a moan and wiggle your hips in an attempt to slide him where you want him most. his grip on your hip just tightens. 

“please,” you gasp. “please, frankie.” 

“you sure you’re ready for—”

“i don’t care.” you push against his shoulders, drawing him closer. “i don’t care, just do it. please, i wanna feel you inside me so bad.” 

with a muffled huff, frankie slides his cock into the entrance of your cunt as you desperately wished he would. he’s big, not the biggest you’ve ever had, but thick and hard and you think that the way you love him makes him feel all the better when he’s trapped in your warmth. he pushes in slowly, inch by inch, until he’s bottomed out, his hips flush against yours. 

for a moment, he stays that way, and you let him, reveling in the feeling of him— _frankie_ —buried in your cunt.

then he moves. 

he drags his cock out to the tip and looks down to see himself slick with your wetness. groaning, he thrusts inside you again, this time a little harder, with a little more purpose. your legs squeeze him tight, and he sets a solid pace, not too fast, not too slow, just enough to keep you both on the edge of orgasm. 

“thought about you,” he whispers against your neck. “thought about you like this when i was gone.” 

“yeah?” you don’t know what he’s talking about you’re so drunk with pleasure, but you want to hear him talk more. the rumble of his voice mixed with each press of his cock in your body is damn near divine. 

“when we were—oh fuck—when we were gettin’ shot at and—and sleepin’ on the ground like dogs, i thought about you.” 

you grip the hair at the base of his neck as he picks up speed, searching for his release as well as your own. “what—” you gasp for breath. “what did you think about?”

“how much i—i wanted you, and how i sh-shouldn’t think about you that way.” he rolls his hips on a deep trust, and stars burst behind your eyelids. “you’re so young and so pretty and so good to me.”

“fuck, frankie, don’t stop!” 

he moves to grip both your hips as his quick thrusts turn to hard pummels. your heart beats wildly in your chest, and you’re sure that the imprint of the organ is visible against your ribs. the bed squeaks with each perfectly angled thrust, and you fists your hands in the sheets to keep from thrashing against the mattress. 

“oh, i’m gonna—” you suck in a breath as your orgasm nears, chest pushed outwards as you shove the crown of your head against the pillows behind you. “shit, i’m gonna come.” 

your undoing is one of frankie’s long fingers descending to your swollen clit. he gives a few quick turns of his wrist, and you shatter, your orgasm drenching you of all thought and reason. muffling your high against your hand, somehow cognisant of maria fast asleep down the hall, you ride out your high as frankie finds his. he releases into the condom not long after you, shuddering over you with a long groan as you milk him for all he’s worth with slow rolls of your hips. 

after a moment, drunk off the aftershocks, frankie slips from your warmth. you sigh at the feeling of his softened cock dragging against your still-fluttering walls, and you roll to the side, eyes shut, as he ties off the condom and disposes of it in the en suite bathroom. when he returns, he slides onto the bed behind you, tossing his arm over your sweat-slick skin. he kisses your bare shoulder. 

“i really did,” he finally says. “think about you while i was out there.”

you twist in his arms to meet his eyes. “really?” 

he nods, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. “every day. thought about how much i loved you, even then.” he brushes a lock of hair away from your forehead. “thought about how shitty it was that i couldn’t have you.” 

“but you could’ve. fuck, i would’ve gone for you on day three, frankie.” 

he laughs at this, rolling onto his back. he takes you with him, and you snuggle against his chest as you regain a measured sense of breathing and settled heart rate. when he sobers, he squeezes your bicep. “we both know that’s not true. but i’m glad i’ve got you now.” he kisses your temple. “you and me,” he whispers. “you and me and the baby—‘s all we need.”

he’s sleepy, you think, and the thought makes you smile. such a tough man, built out of hardwork and sweat and grit, soft in your arms as he finds comfort in a moment of peace. he deserves it. after everything he’s been through, he deserves it.

you kiss his collarbone. “frankie?”

a long moment passes before he mumbles, “hmm?”

“i can make french toast for breakfast.” 

even on sleep’s doorstep, frankie perks up at the thought of a good meal. he holds you tighter. “love you.” 

grinning, you lower your head to hear his heartbeat, steady beneath your ear. “love you too.”

*******

**six months later.**

it’s night, moonlight filtering through the window over the kitchen sink. you’re happy, a recent graduate of university, and a part-time freelancer. but best of all: a fiancée and a mother. your ring finger is heavy with the weight of frankie’s promise, and your ears still resonate with the sound of maria’s first word— _mama._

“‘s that for me?” 

you look up from the kitchen counter and nod. “your lunch for tomorrow.”

“ugh, don’t remind me,” he whines on a huff. “why do i have to go to work? why can’t i just stay here with you?” 

frankie presses his body against your back, sliding his fingertips beneath the top of your jeans. you giggle as he kisses your neck, well-aware of the slight bulge pushing against your ass. setting down the kitchen knife, you hold tight to the counter and wiggle your hips on his hardening length. 

“now, frankie,” you drawl, lifting one arm to toy with the curls at the base of his neck. “how else are we supposed to go out for a hot date if you don’t go to work? who do you think is gonna pay for all that wine? benny?” 

frankie stills. “hot date?” he steps to the side and looks at you with a frown. “am i forgetting something?”

you lift an eyebrow, hand on your hip. “apparently so. we have a date tomorrow. for our anniversary.” 

“oh fuck!” frankie slaps his palm against his forehead, pushing his glasses closer to his eyes in the process. “i almost forgot. there was this thing at work today and—”

shaking your head, you slide your hands over his chest and drape your arms around his shoulders. you kiss him softly before pulling back with a smile. “it’s okay,” you say. “things happen.” 

“we can still go!” he hurries. “there’s no reason we can’t go. i want to take you out.” 

“okay, we’ll go.” stepping back, you resume making his lunch, and he grabs a beer from the fridge. 

“oh wait,” he says, snapping his fingers.

you look up from the half-made sandwich in your hand. “what?” 

with a smirk and a well-timed wink, he slaps your ass. “i’ve got to find a new babysitter.” 

_the end._


End file.
